


Mrs Pollifax Does Lunch

by genarti



Category: Mrs. Pollifax - Dorothy Gilman
Genre: Friendship, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Geraniums, Misses Clause Challenge, Spies doing non-spy things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wintry day in New Brunswick, New Jersey is brightened considerably by an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs Pollifax Does Lunch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookchan/gifts).



It was morning in apartment 4-A. Mrs. Pollifax was lingering over the crumbs of her breakfast by the balcony door. The sunlight that illuminated the room did so only with the weak light of a chilly January morning, but she had insulated herself against any slight draft with a quilted bathrobe and a new pair of bright purple fluffy slippers which her son Roger had given her for Christmas. She was planning her garden for the spring.

For several years now she had grown geraniums which were always hailed with flattering approval by the rest of the Garden Club -- but, she thought, when one has grown the same thing for several years one grows hungry for a change, and did she really want to concentrate on geraniums yet again? Of course she would keep a few, but she had only a small balcony and a limited number of windows with good sunlight. Last year she had by dint of careful research and attention managed to grow a night-blooming cereus. She remained extremely proud of that. 

Of course keeping a night-blooming cereus alive through a New Jersey winter and coaxing it to flower again for its one glorious night in late summer was another challenge, and one she had not yet completed. She had read up on it carefully. There was a schedule pinned to her refrigerator, reminding her of when she ought to provide the cereus with extra light in early spring to stimulate budding, and when she ought to move it outside. But was maintaining her last triumph really enough? Did she want more, or was that entirely too much ambition for a small balcony? And after all, it was always possible that once again, Mr. Carstairs of the CIA might call upon her, as he had upon a few prior occasions, and interrupt her peaceful gardening schedule with the fresh air of excitement and danger...

She must not count on that, but perhaps it was sensible to account for it in her planning. She found herself smiling down at her orange juice glass. "And now you're only daydreaming, Emily," she said out loud to herself, and in penitence got up to do the breakfast dishes.

While she was setting the last glass on the sideboard, she occupied herself with bittersweet thoughts about her adventure last year during which she had aided in a mass jailbreak, met a remarkable man called Tsanko, and gotten herself banned from Bulgaria. It was while she was wondering with some amusement how her minder Nevena was getting along that the telephone rang.

"Hello?" she said absently, tucking the receiver against her shoulder to finish drying her hands.

"Hello, Duchess," said a voice she had never expected to hear again, and certainly not on a phone in New Jersey. She nearly dropped the phone.

" _Farrell?_ "

"In the flesh." He sounded warmly amused, and she forgave him instantly for the self-satisfaction she could hear in his voice. He sounded extremely healthy, as well, which relieved her since he led a dangerous life. "And in New York, at that."

"But what on earth -- what are you doing here instead of in Mexico City? However did you get my number, was it from Bishop? Are you here long?" Aware that she was babbling she stopped herself from further questions. Farrell was laughing.

"Looked in the phone book, of course. And I'm not in Mexico any longer. I'll tell you the details later if you like. But look, what I'm really calling about is to say that I can be in New Brunswick in a few hours and I don't know when I'll be in the States next, can I take you to lunch?"

"Farrell, how positively chivalrous of you. Yes, of course, you know I'd love to see you."

"Marvelous. What's the address? No, don't worry, I have an atlas and a rental car."

They exchanged a few more words and then he hung up. Mrs. Pollifax put down the phone and gazed across the room. It seemed to her that the winter sunlight had already brightened. "Oh," she said softly to herself, "what a wonderful day it's become!"

 

* * * *

 

By eleven o'clock she had not only changed out of her bathrobe and slippers (a requirement of the day which ordinarily she greeted with faint regret, and a desire to live in some time or place when one might go about all day long in a bathrobe) but she had also made a pot of coffee, watered the plants, and put a casserole into the refrigerator to bake later, in case Farrell wanted to stay for dinner. Besides that she had phoned the president of the Garden Club to inform her that a very dear friend had unexpectedly found himself in town and depending on how long he could stay she might be obliged to miss that afternoon's meeting. Mrs. Otis had been understanding, particularly after Mrs. Pollifax had assured her that the peanut butter cookies she'd promised to bring were already baked. Her neighbor Miss Hartshorne could bring them in her place if necessary.

Mrs. Otis had also been politely curious about this dear friend, but Mrs. Pollifax had felt it best to murmur something unspecific and change the subject. "After all," she said to herself, "I can hardly mention the prison in Albania!"

A little after eleven thirty the doorman informed her that a caller had arrived. "Oh, yes," she beamed, "send him up." Impatiently she went out to meet him in the hallway.

The last time she'd seen John Sebastian Farrell he had been recovering from a badly broken leg, poor feeding, and the hardships of a trek across Albania with first a tree and then a goatherd's crook for a crutch. She was delighted to see now that he did indeed look quite healthy, and every bit the debonair man of the world. He was deeply tanned, no doubt from the South American sun, and dressed in a blue shirt with a bold collar and high-waisted trousers in a daring zig-zag print, and she was charmed to see that he had even grown a mustache. "Why Farrell," she told him, "you look entirely dashing!"

"Damn good to see you, Duchess," he said, and dropped a kiss on her cheek. "So this is your natural habitat? It boggles the mind."

She beamed at him comfortably. "I don't see why it should. Come in, you must want a coffee or something after the drive. Oh, it's wonderful to see you. I'm so very glad you called."

"I couldn't pass up the chance to see your geraniums," he told her, and let her usher him into her little apartment.

 

* * * *

 

One cup of coffee and two cookies later ("but no more," she told him, "or you'll spoil your appetite, and besides these are really for the Garden Club meeting") she had learned that he was in the States to visit an old friend. " _Not_ someone who worked for Carstairs," he said frankly, "in fact he has no idea that I ever did either, but a very good friend. Well known in the art world, he's got the eye of a genius. And very ill, dammit." Since he seemed disinclined to talk further about that she turned the conversation to lighter matters while she fetched her hat. It was a new favorite, bright blue with a wide brim and a cluster of huge green flowers festooning one side, and Farrell regarded it with some awe.

"Where did you fly from, if it wasn't Mexico?"

"Zambia, if you can believe it."

"Zambia!" Mrs. Pollifax was astonished. "Isn't that in Africa? Whatever were you doing there?"

The name conjured for her vague but marvelous thoughts of lions coughing on the savannah, and vaguer memories of newspaper articles about its independence from Britain some years ago. Had it been Rhodesia, or was that somewhere else? No, she thought that Rhodesia still existed. Mrs. Pollifax cherished romantic dreams about visiting Africa from childhood films and later National Geographic articles, but it occurred to her that this was a continent she knew very little about.

Farrell grinned at her. His teeth were white beneath his dark mustache and tanned face -- not from the sun of South America after all. "Living there."

Mrs. Pollifax opened the door, still marveling, and nearly walked into her neighbor Miss Hartshorne. 

Miss Hartshorne was a woman with the soul of a stern schoolteacher. The thought of her disapproval had at one point withered Mrs. Pollifax, but in recent years they had become friends. There was nothing like fleeing foreign police, Mrs. Pollifax thought, to give one the confidence for equality in friendship with even stern schoolteachers. "Emily," she said with reproof. "Mrs. Otis told me you might miss the meeting tonight. It really is a shame. I plan to show the club a few slides from my trip to Turkey. They have marvelous gardens there, you know. You really _ought_ to visit sometime. I'll just collect the cookies you were bringing in case you can't make it." She stuck out her hand at Farrell, briskly. "How do y'do? I'm Grace Hartshorne."

"Grace lives across the hall," put in Mrs. Pollifax, watching with fascination. It had been strange enough seeing Farrell in her familiarly cozy living room. Farrell meeting Miss Hartshorne was a collision of two worlds.

"Charmed," he said, shaking hands. "John Sebastian Farrell. Do you, er, show slides to the Garden Club often?"

"Oh yes. I simply adore travel -- I take a Cook's tour every year. It keeps me young. And friends and neighbors do so appreciate seeing slides of the interesting places one's been. I've often told Emily that she ought to do the same, but she simply doesn't listen. I'm afraid she has very little sense of adventure."

Farrell appeared to be struck with a brief coughing fit.

"I'm sorry, Grace," said Mrs Pollifax hastily, to prevent herself from laughing, "but we really must be going. Farrell is only in town for a little while. The cookies are on a plate on the counter."

Farrell had recovered sufficiently to bid Miss Hartshorne a polite farewell, in all sobriety. But his eyes were dancing as they walked down the hall, and in the elevator he burst out laughing. "No sense of adventure, my God! You're a wonder, Duchess. Carstairs would be proud."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Pollifax modestly. "Grace has such a _fixed_ idea of adventure. And of course I've never brought back any slides from a trip -- though," she added with a twinkle, "naturally most of my travel is to visit the grandchildren or old school friends, so there isn't a great deal to take pictures of in any case. But I don't think she's ever forgiven me for not bringing any slides back from Bulgaria."

"Bulgaria!" He looked at her with keen interest. "Took a trip there, did you? Tell me something about it over lunch, if you like. Where are we going, anyway? I put myself in your hands, Duchess, you're the native and I know your judgment's keen."

He was having altogether too much fun with this, Mrs. Pollifax thought, but then so was she. "Reuben's Kosher Deli," she told him with decision. "It's just down the street and they do excellent pastrami sandwiches. And the head waitress is lovely, you know, she's had the most interesting life." They were passing through the lobby now and out onto the street. Mrs. Pollifax waved gaily to the doorman. "She hasn't said as much but I really do think her grandparents were some kind of bootleggers back in Prohibition -- would you call it _rumrunners_ , do you know, since she's from Boston originally? -- and her parents were Beatniks, just imagine, so of course she had rather a wild youth, traveling all about and taking drugs and all, and she even was part of a circus at one point, and now she's a wife and mother and waitress in New Jersey and she crochets afghans. That extraordinarily colorful one on the couch is her work."

 

* * * *

 

Linda who crocheted afghans was not on duty that day. All the same, they had an excellent lunch, and Mrs. Pollifax entertained herself chatting with the waitress they did have, a charming young co-ed named Donna who had daringly accessorized her waitress's uniform with bright slashes of blue eyeshadow and two colors of eyeliner. Entirely too much to flatter her thin face, Mrs. Pollifax thought privately, but one must make allowances for the young, and Donna was very clearly hungry to express herself.

She was also very clearly hungry for the attention of a dashingly mustachioed man of the world in a bold-collared shirt. Mrs. Pollifax smothered a smile. "I wonder what she'd think of life in Zambia?" she asked mischievously, when Donna had left after refilling Farrell's water glass for the fifth unnecessary time.

Farrell, in the middle of lighting a cigarette, snorted. "Matchmaking, Duchess?"

"Not really," she allowed. "But I _am_ dreadfully curious."

"There's not a great deal to tell. I've got some farmland, and some men I'm employing to teach me what to do with it. I may keep on employing them to handle the bulk of the work, though. I'm considering opening a gallery after all -- amazing art they've got in Zambia, and hardly known in the West. You should see some of the basketwork. Astonishing stuff."

"Farmland!" she repeated, taken quite aback. He didn't seem as if he were joking, and yet it was not at all what she would have thought of John Sebastian Farrell, whether or not he was considering an art gallery. Only two years ago he had been taking glamorous double agents out to dinner and hobnobbing with the art world of Mexico City. That he might decamp to Zambia of his own accord or be sent there on assignment was unexpected but comprehensible, but learning to farm sounded entirely too settled for the Farrell she knew.

He grinned as if he could hear her thoughts. It was a lopsided grin, containing a little more self-mockery than she quite liked to see from him. "Not what you expected?"

"Not in the least," she told him frankly, "but of course what I expect doesn't matter. You could move to Antarctica if it made you happy. _Are_ you happy there?"

She had surprised him. "I don't know," he told her slowly. "But I think I could be." He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and tapped the ash off his cigarette. "The truth is, Duchess, I'm tired. It's why I retired -- ha, didn't know that? Yes, I quit. There's so damn much falseness in this business. It's exhilarating, right up to the point when you realize you've been running yourself ragged for years without noticing. One can't live on exhilaration all the time. When you hit that point, you'd better drop out before you make an unforgivable mistake. So I did. Made a clean break of it. I want to give the quiet life a try. What do you think, should I ask you to teach me to grow geraniums?"

Impulsively, she clasped his hand. It startled him, and she smiled warmly and patted his hand before she released it. "I'd be happy to, of course. But perhaps you'd rather borrow a book on solitaire? It's an excellent way to occupy the mind, you know."

She was rewarded by the sight of Farrell bursting into laughter. It had, she thought, more than a little release of tension in it -- he had been holding that outburst in for some time. 

When his laughter had subsided, she continued, "If you really want to grow geraniums -- aren't they originally from Africa? -- you can always come to the Garden Club meeting tonight. Everyone would be fascinated to hear about the soil in Zambia. Even," she added with a smile, "if you don't have any slides. But Farrell, of course it makes sense. I went to work for Mr. Carstairs because I'd grown so sick of a quiet tidy life. I'd been feeling boxed in for years, I think, just as you say, and I didn't realize it until I hit a point where I had to do something, anything else. You've had the opposite. I think a farm and a new sort of art sounds lovely. And farming is art of a sort, isn't it? At any rate, creation."

They sat for a moment in a companionable silence. There was nothing at all awkward in it; they had grown past awkwardness, whether in confession or in silence, after the first few days in the same small cell.

"Come to the Garden Club," Farrell said thoughtfully. "Duchess, you know, I think I will. I don't mind telling you that I'm _fascinated_ to see this."

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between _The Elusive Mrs. Pollifax_ and _A Palm For Mrs Pollifax_ , and goes very slightly AU from certain points of canon continuity -- but not so far, I hope, that it can't be made to mostly match up again. Unless you'd rather assume it goes wildly AU from here and Farrell moves to New Jersey and joins the Garden Club. And, you know, that would be hilarious!
> 
> I had _tremendous_ fun writing this! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy the result. (Thank you also to Ryfkah and Emmy for the beta and cheerleading!)


End file.
